


Chinese Meat Buns

by SlutWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Competition, Degradation, F/M, Gymnast, Hotdogging, Humiliation, Muscle, Raceplay, Squirting, Sweat, Twerking, Verbal Abuse, fitness, huge ass, huge cock, rimjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28550529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: This commissioned story tells the tale of Orson, a gifted American gymnast at the rescheduled Tokyo Olympics who becomes totally enamored with a member of the Chinese gymnastics team... specifically, her short height, her hair buns... and especially her enormous bubble butt!
Comments: 18
Kudos: 172





	Chinese Meat Buns

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a commission.

“That’s her.”

Orson was talking only to himself, his low voice was detectable only by his own ears in the busting indoor stadium. Everywhere around him, gymnasts and athletes of every nationality and creed were going through their warmups for the first day of competition at the 2020 Olympic games, which, because of COVID-19, were being held in late 2021 in Tokyo, Japan.

Orson’s eyes, shielded by the bangs from his mop of brown hair, were focused on one gymnast in particular - a female member of the Chinese delegation who was presently tumbling across the mats with vigor, her face granite-hard with concentration. Much as it was difficult to recognize anyone in the throng of athletes, trainers, coaches, and representatives, there was no way he could miss the Chinese gymnast. Not because of her notably short height - she only came up to his chest - and not because of her prowess, though that was considerable. Not even because of her pretty face.

No, Orson was totally focused on her thighs and ass. Which were absolutely  _ huge _ . He couldn’t help but imagine the Chinese team having to design a special leotard to contain such a donk. The red fabric clinging to her bulging buttocks coated her flesh like a second skin, doing very little to hide the curvature of her hips and rear. In the places where her thighs emerged from the leg holes, the suit cut into her flesh deliciously, showing how bouncy and grabbable it was. 

Orson was very used to seeing tight, athletic behinds - in gymnastics, it came with the territory. The men’s team had physiques carved out of wood, and the women had thighs of steel. Most were of the more muscular variety. This Chinese gymnast blew them all away. He was both powerful and thicc as a bowl of oatmeal. Orson watched, smitten, as she bounced across the square, warming up for her floor routine. She dropped into a front-and-back split and her buttocks actually provided enough recoil and bounce to allow her to rebound effortlessly back up to her feet. 

“Hnnnngh,” Orson groaned, biting his lower lip. He had seen her around and knew her name was Ling, but that was all. Orson was known among all the members of USA Gymnastics for being the biggest horndog around; he had already regaled his fellows with all the ass he was going to crush while staying at Olympic village, social distancing or not. The other guys had smiled and egged him on, asking him how many scalps he was going to come home with. Hell, to Orson, they were more prestigious than medals!

The Scandanavians. The Brazilians. The Russians! Every women’s team had a smorgasbord of gorgeous asses to ogle, and Orson spent much of every international competition getting an eyeful. Of course he had his own events to worry about - the rings, the pommel horse, the parallel bars - but when all was said and done, it was the flirting and fucking that excited him most. And the most prized of these conquests?

The Asians, no question. There was just something about them. Their cultures, along with their languages being so inscrutable to him, made them seem more exotic. The way their coaches and handlers tended to herd them around and watch them carefully reminded him of pimps and prostitutes (not that he would ever voice this shameful thought out loud), and in the case of the Chinese in particular, their communist government and often adversarial relationship with the good ol’ US of A filled with him patriotic plowing intent, wanting to take some scalps back to the land of the free and the home of the brave.

But, it was impossible for the most part. The Communist Party officials held on to their gymnasts like their balls, in his experience, and he would be lucky to pass two unlikely-to-be-understood words of greeting before the uniformly shy athletes were pulled away. Nonetheless, he continued to lust after them. Besides,  _ this one _ didn’t seem shy. She seemed like a killer out there. He watched as she effortlessly completed a tumble and front flip with a half-twist, landing on dainty feet and graceful calves that were pipe-stems compared to her thunder thighs and amazing, tank-like bubble ass.

“How much fucking talc are you going to use?” someone asked, and Orson was jolted back to reality. It was his teammate Neil - handsome, friendly, an amazing physique, and queer as a roll of three cent coins. Orson had been daydreaming about Ling’s huge badonk and sprinkling talc on his hands for the better part of two minutes. A pile of the white stuff had accumulated near his feet, and the bottle was nearly empty. As it was, he could barely respond to his friend, as he watched the Chinese gymnast mount the balance beam for a warmup, and immediately drop into a straddle of the beam, causing her bulbous, half-moon ass-cheeks to tense and jiggle.

Neil saw where Orson was looking and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, dude. No chance,” he assessed. “You should be thinking about your routine, not staring at asses!”

“Man, come on,” Orson objected, looking desperate. “That ass, those thighs, that figure… her height… she’s even got Chun-Li hair buns!” He gestured helplessly, and Neil couldn’t help but laugh.

“You need help, Orson,” his friend chuckled. “You really do. You’re lucky I won’t tell the coach about this. I swear, if you’re up all night in the common area flirting, instead of getting rest for tomorrow, he’s going to be really pissed.”

“I won’t be, I promise,” Orson said, and tipped Neil a wink. And that was his intent. It honestly, honestly was. When he arrived back at the Olympic Village (actually the Olympic Bubble), he was tired from his warmups, and decided to skip the common area altogether. He decided to go to the bar and restaurant, with no plan more sneaky than to grab a hamburger and a drink before heading up to his room. Good boy Orson, not making any trouble for Team USA.

But, when he turned the corner and saw the line of stools in front of the bar,  _ there _ she was, sitting with the same resting bitch-face he’d seen the previous day, and looking astoundingly good in spite of it. Instead of her gymnast’s leotard she was wearing a red button-up jacket and tights with the Chinese Olympic logo on the hip. Her hair, done up in adorable ox-horns, was the same.

He walked over to sit down beside her, chastising himself even as he did so.  _ Don’t cause an international incident, Orson, _ he thought.  _ Just because you don’t see her handlers doesn’t mean they’re not here somewhere.  _ Still, he approached, and before she noticed him he paused to take one long, glorious look at the way her amazing butt-cheeks sat round and plump on the barstool, so meaty they seemed to be in danger of sliding off in either direction. The tights she was wearing hugged close to her skin and gave him an amazing view of the depth and potential dick-hugging qualities of her ass-crack. 

He felt his cock jump in his warmups and quickly slid onto the stool. “Where are your friends?” he asked, conversationally, leaning over and smiling. She turned immediately and raised an eyebrow at him, and for the first time he saw her eye color, a startling silver-grey that shone like polished coins. She looked annoyed and confused, but Orson plowed on, gesticulating and speaking clearly in case she spoke poor English. “Your friends. The CCP folks. On vacation today?”

She made a haughty ‘hmmph!’ sound and turned back to her drink, which appeared to be some sort of gaudy cocktail with more umbrellas than substance. “You Americans, always so nosy,” she said, and he was pleased to discover that her accent was just thick enough to be very cute, and not so thick that he couldn’t understand her. “Go back to New York, mind own business.”

“I’m from Michigan,” Orson said, bemused. 

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand, before taking a sip of her drink. “New York, Texas, Hawaii, all Americans have big mouth!” She looked at him fiercely. “But China beat you every competition, men’s gymnastics, all the time.”

Orson was actually taken aback by her aggressive, nationalistic verve. It was true that the American men’s team hadn’t taken any big competitions in a decade or more. He found, almost to his amusement, that he felt his own homeland pride surging in defense. “Did your communist bosses tell you to say that?” Orson half-joked. “Have you got a playbook they give you for talking to American guys?”

“I not puppet!” she barked, looking at him fiercely. “You see any China team here? No?” She lifted her chin with pride. “I sneak out.”

Orson took a more relaxed stance on his stool and look at her. She was headstrong, opinionated, competitive, daring, and amazingly beautiful. He opened his mouth and had to physically restrain himself from saying something stupid like ‘I want to slide my dick in between your hair buns’. “Bad girl, huh?” he joked. “I guess I don’t like rules much, either.”

“That is because you American. Unruly, always ‘me-me-me’, never, ‘good of the team’,” she sniped, stirring her drink and smirking. “American work habits, fitness, training all very bad. I train very hard, very good. Chinese team training.”

This time, Orson did feel a pang of patriotism actually come to the surface. All the American gymnasts he knew worked  _ very hard _ and sacrificed a  _ lot _ . “That’s not true. You’re just repeating what you’re told,” he objected. “Do your commie bosses have to stick a key in your back and wind you up in the morning, or what?” He smirked as her eyes narrowed with anger. “The way you guys get treated, I wouldn’t compete for the Chinese team in a million years!”

Ling slammed her cute and tiny fist on the bar, rattling her drink and nearly toppling it. “You one to talk! U.S. gymnastics doctor molesting women’s team non-stop! I never compete for capitalist pig and perverts!”

“That was one guy!” Orson barked. “And we threw him in jail!”

“You probably want molest me right now!” Ling went on, crossing her arms.

“We’re lucky we’re even having the Olympics after you guys let loose the coronavirus!” Orson blurted. “And, your leader looks like Winnie the Pooh!” Their faces were coming closer together as they seethed at each other, causing Ling to clench her teeth.   
  
“Oh, that it!” she growled. “You lazy American and rude! Make bet with me, coward! When I get better score tomorrow on vault, you kiss my feet in front of whole team, say sorry, and you love China!” She put her finger in his face. “If you don’t, you coward like every other American slob sitting home with dick in hand while Chinese people work for better nation!”

Orson considered what she was saying. The vault was one of the events shared by both male and female gymnasts, consisting of a padded runway leading up to a springboard. After a sprint, the gymnast would fly over the vaulting horse, completing various flips, tucks and spins in midair before landing on a landing pad. Orson himself was pretty good at the vault. He had no idea if Ling was good or not, but if she was a Chinese Olympian, the chances were high that she was very good. 

“Alright,” he said, his ego and nationalism getting the better of him. “You’re on. But if I get a better score, you have to do something for me, too.”

Ling looked positively pleased at his acceptance, exuding an aura of confidence that was frightening. It was clear that she thought there was absolutely no way she could lose in overall score. “It not matter,” she boasted. “I never lose to dumb lazy American.”

Orson leaned in closer and started to speak in a low voice. As he did, Ling’s eyes went wide and her face pulled into a disgusted grimace. She gasped with indignity as he spoke… but her cheeks also flushed red, and she tugged down at the sides of her jacket, as if attempting to obscure her amazingly thicc thighs and round butt-mounds. It was a futile effort, as she had legs that looked like they could feed a family of eight. “You American pig!” she objected, looking down and away as she blushed. 

_ If I score better, you come up to my room and do whatever I want with that thick ass _ . No exceptions. That had been Orson’s offer. He expected her to call the whole thing off and maybe throw her drink in his face, but her reaction was a strange mixture of indignity and embarrassment, as her outward confidence clashed with self-consciousness about her large hips and bubbly, bulging butt!

“Well… if you’re afraid you’ll lose,” Orson taunted, shrugging with a smile. “I guess there’s no bet.” That was all it took to lure her in. He could almost see her reservations get pushed to the side as pure pride and hubris filled her cute face.

“You not get off that easy!” she sneered, and rose from her stool, hopping down to the floor. He couldn’t help but watch as her booty bounced and actually made a clapping noise when her feet hit the tile. God, her legs were like something out of science-fiction. Big and thick, the perfect mix of muscled and shapely, and topping off with those hips and those big, bootyful Asian donk-mounds! Her tights, clinging like yoga pants, spared no detail. He bit his bottom lip and simped uncontrollably for a moment, drawing in breath.

She saw where he was looking and rolled her eyes at him. “You really are pig!” she squawked, tugging down on the sides of her CCP jacket again, her silver eyes burning a hole in him. “And tomorrow, after perfect score, I make you crawl and oink like pig!”

She turned to walk away, and Orson snapped out of his reverie long enough to shout ‘get that ass ready!’ over the noise of the bar, before becoming mesmerized again as she walked gracefully across the bar and out the opposite exit, ass jiggling all the way. Each step was a pleasure to behold. Her calves and thighs were carved out of wood. But above those… that monster ass…  _ god _ !

He took a deep breath. It occurred to him that he had just bet his dignity on beating a world-class Chinese gymnast in the vault, when he himself would have been ecstatic with as little as a top five placing. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m going to end up crawling around like a pig and praising the Chinese Communist Party.”

He did not sleep well that night.

* * *

Later the next day, he was cursing his stupidity even harder. The distraction of watching Ling perform had made him lose focus in a few of his own events. After dismounting the rings and walking over to his coach to say ‘fuck, that was dogshit’, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Ling was about to start her vault, and was immediately transfixed, with every other noise and distraction seem to fade away.

He watched as she sprinted down the runway, cheeks wiggling amazingly, and launched her petite body into a beautiful full layout flip with dizzying rotations and twists. 

_ I’m fucked _ , he thought. The landing was nearly perfect, with only a tiny tilt to adjust balance, and his heart sank as she was shortly rewarded sky high marks in both difficulty and artistic execution. Orson’s shoulders slumped, and then, as he was watching Ling walk around and be congratulated by her teammates (none of whom had anything close to her sidewalk-cracking bubble butt), the tiny Chinese gymnast turned to him and made intentional eye-contact. She then pointed to him and pulled up her nostrils into the shape of a pig.

Orson felt both his manly pride and his patriotic zeal become inflamed once again. That little Chinese bitch had a lot of nerve! He hoped she would crash and burn in her second and final vault, and was again disappointed when she received high marks, good enough for a silver or gold medal depending on how things shook out.

If he didn’t want to humiliate himself, or welsh on the bet (which would kind of be the same thing), he would have to give the vaulting performance of his life. It would be his turn to hit the runway in only a few moments, and the wait dug a fiery pit of nerves into his stomach. Orson set about psyching himself up. He told himself he could do it. He roared along with his teammates, exchanged high fives, and prepared his body to peak at just the right moment. But behind it all, he saw  _ that ass _ . If he was somehow able to pull off a miracle, he would have that thick, slappable, spankable, grabbable, cock-swallowing, face-sitting, perfect piece of Grade A Chinese  _ ass meat _ all to himself!

“Let’s fucking do this!” he breathed, as his name was called. He slapped his face and looked over to the Chinese delegation. Ling was still smirking at him, and made the pignose gesture again. He responded by mimicking giving her a spanking, which made her face blush red with indignation once again… and made her cutely and self-consciously drop her hands to try to obscure her wide hips.

He took off down the ramp. Planted. Propelled himself. He spun and twisted in the air and came down with what he thought was a perfect landing, his lean and muscled body standing stone still after the impact. The crowd cheered. 

_ I did it _ , he thought.  _ I actually did it!  _ His heart swelled with the knowledge that maybe it was possible after all. But then his heart sank when he saw the scores. His vault was not as difficult as Ling’s had been, and the judges also thought he had landed off center. His score, which was nearly a competition best for him, was still lower than hers by a full point. Now his task was essentially impossible. To beat Ling’s aggregate score, he would have to perform a more difficult vault than she had… and score a perfect ten on it.

He had never scored a perfect ten in competition in his life. He looked over at Ling. She was beaming at him with her silver eyes, arms crossed, looking confident. He knew that when he had to pay off the bet, he would have to endure her crowing and taunts, which would be caustic and emasculating. 

“You big-butt Chinese bitch,” he muttered, dusting off his hands. He had only one option - to raise the difficulty of his final vault. He would have to try the Rise Gwang II - a triple front flip with a half-twist. He had completed it before… in practice. Once. And nearly broke his ankle doing so. A sort of fatalism overtook him as he awaited his turn. If he under-rotated and broke his neck, at least he wouldn’t be licking Chinese shoe leather. He zoned everything else out and just thought of ass. Buns. Jiggling, bitchy, Chinese  _ meat buns.  _ Ling, squatting in front of him and shaking her thick ass-cheeks for his amusement, her expression smoldering, as he forced her to apologize to superior American gymnasts.

The announcer called his name. “Fuck it,” he said, taking a breath. He could go balls to the wall. His feet, pounding on the runway, the inhale of baited breath from the audience as he launched himself. One front flip. Two front flips.

_ Get ready for my big American cock, you Chinese slut _ , he thought, viciously. He did his half turn and landed. For a moment there was no sound. Then… a roar. A roar so loud, he could barely hear himself think. He had absolutely  _ nailed _ the vault - which was so difficult, only a handful of gymnasts in the world could do it - and the landing had been perfect. On center, no tilting. The crowd was going crazy, and his teammates, who had no idea he’d been planning to up the difficulty of his vault, were going apeshit as he walked toward them.

The scores were read out. The highest score for difficulty. And perfect tens for execution! He waved to the crowd, and turned immediately to his Chinese arch-nemesis, smirking. Her face was wide-eyed with astonishment… and rosy-cheeked from nervousness and embarrassment. Orson couldn’t help but smile as he thought about her defiant face changing to obedience as she bent over in front of him. The fact that his two-vault total was a personal best and likely to medal barely registered, even as his teammates gathered around his tall and muscled frame in droves, cheering and rubbing his head.

His mind was already on what would happen that evening.

* * *

Orson’s total performance was indeed good enough for a bronze medal in the vault. His coach asked him as they left the venue what possessed him to perform above and beyond his former level, and Orson lied and told him that it must have been patriotism for the good ol’ U-S-and-A.

He did not admit to the coach he’d been thinking completely about the A-S-and-S.

Once the euphoria of a great performance had died down and he was alone in his room, he suddenly became sure that Ling wouldn’t show up. She would make some sort of excuse, tell him it had been a joke. Or perhaps, he thought, she would show up to congratulate him and admit she was wrong, but make it clear that no hanky-panky would be occurring. Or maybe the whole thing was just a little motivational device he had used, almost subconsciously, to improve his performance. Not serious in the first place.

He pored over these possibilities as he sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers and undershirt, half-unpacked Team USA luggage piled pyramidally nearby.  _ Stop getting your hopes up for nothing _ , he told himself.  _ You made that counter-proposal as a joke, anyway. To tease her. To shock her. She was taunting you. You didn’t really expect her to follow through with it, did you? _

Orson supposed not. He stretched, flexing his athletic rack of lean muscles, and exhaled, ready to move on with his life. But just as he braced his feet to rise from the bed, there was a hesitant, almost stealthy knock at his door.

His heart began to pound, even as his mind warned him against it. It was probably just Neil, wanting to go out and celebrate with the team, or his coach, though the hour  _ was _ a little late for such things.

He approached the door and opened it… and immediately, a very short figure, wearing a red hoodie, leggings and sunglasses, bustled through, traveling under his arm. Orson burst out laughing even as his stomach twisted in nervous knots of anticipation. “Oh my god, what’s with that getup?” he asked, shutting the door and making a show of locking it securely so they wouldn’t be disturbed. “Are you some sort of spy?”

“I not want to be seen going into room of American pig!” Ling squawked, tossing away her sunglasses onto a table and pulling her hoodie down, revealing her adorable, tightly-wound ox horns. But her hairstyle wasn’t the pair of buns Orson was most interested in. “You lucky, Chinese are honorable people!”

“Is that so?”

She crossed her arms and raised her nose up at him. “Hmmph! I should not pay bet! Judges always biased for Americans!”

“Take your hoodie off,” Orson said, experimenting. Her response to his firm command would be telling. He wasn’t going to do anything she wouldn’t allow - that wasn’t part of his plan. But he had a sense that on some level, she was willing. If she told him to fuck himself and didn’t undress, he would have to settle for some quick gloating and a nice view of her ass as it went out the door. On the other hand, if she took her hoodie off, who knew where that might lead?

His mouth turned up into a smirk as she reached down to the waistline and grabbed the plush, red-colored CCP hoodie and peeled it up and over her sculpted midsection and shapely breasts. She was wearing a tight workout tanktop underneath, something like the Chinese version of Under Armour. 

“There? Happy now, American pig?” she pouted.

Orson scoffed. “Happy? Not by a long shot! If I lost that bet, you’d have me on a leash, crawling around in front of your team, praising the government of China right now! So come on.” He walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down. “Stand in front of me.”

Ling’s eyes flared brilliantly. “I not doing that!” she barked, but he gestured again.

“Come on. I won’t touch you. You just have to give a bit of a performance and we’ll call it even.”

She grimaced and walked over in front of him. He watched her tiny feet - they had to be size zero - moving in their cute running shoes. She had such an amazing ass and hips, just watching her pixie-sized form flutter from place to place was a treat. He became aware that he was quickly getting an erection - which, given his rather blessed size, would soon be a problem.

She stood in front of him and crossed her arms over her breasts, refusing to make eye contact. “What now?” she said, rudely.

“Turn around,” he prompted, and she hissed air out her nose haughtily and did so. Orson was thus granted his first unobstructed, unashamed view of her back and rear end. It was everything he hoped it would be. Her skin-hugging tights almost looked painted on. That big, thick, powerful bubble butt was right in his face! He just knew that if he reached out and grabbed with his large hands, his fingers would sink into that ass meat deliciously! It took every ounce of willpower he had not to just start grabbing.

He had something else he wanted - needed - to see.

“I want you to twerk for me,” he prompted, and Ling blinked, annoyed and embarrassed as one might be when one hears something they can’t understand.

“What?” she spat.

“Twerk. You know - throw that ass!” Orson prompted, almost giggling at her annoyed look. “Bounce that booty!”

“I don’t know this,” she objected. “Must be stupid American thing!”

“On the contrary,” Orson said, leaning over to grab his laptop near the bend. Many tabs on his browser were actually still open to images of Ling in competition that he’d been using for ‘research’. “It may be the greatest American invention ever!”

With a few clicks and keystrokes he brought up a montage of women lewdly and vigorously throwing ass to Cardi B’s “WAP”. The constant background verbals -  _ there’s some whores in this house, there’s some whores in this house _ \- filled the room. Ling watched and her eyes went wide again. She blushed and could barely look at the screen since the women on it were acting like such unabashed sexuality!

“I world class athlete! Not stripper!” she whined.

Orson firmed up his voice. “Do it,” he ordered, his voice gaining momentum as his words grew more lurid. “I’ve had it with your stalling. Shake that ass. Bounce that  _ big fat bubble-butt _ ! Drop that  _ huge, Chinese shitter _ of yours low and let me hear it clap! In fact - get on the bed and do it, right over my face!” He reached out for her waist. He knew it risked the whole deal, but he needed to make things happen. 

“Wha- ah!” Ling wailed, as his hands closed around her lower ribs. Unlike her hips, this area of her was very slender, and her short height allowed him to hoist her up to stand on the edge of the mattress. “Get your hands off! And stop saying crude things!”

“I’ll say whatever I want!” Orson shot back. “You’re not a world-class athlete… you’re a thicc, bubble butt Chinese bitch with a pair of big, fat ass-globes! Now, spread your legs and shake that shit!”

Ling whined, but she obeyed, widening her stance. Orson laid back on the bed as she straddled him and started to toss her ass around. “I get you for this!” she pouted, arching her back and thrusting her bottom out in an imitation of what was playing on the laptop. “American pig!” 

“Ha, you’re a natural!” Orson said, and of course, this comment annoyed her to no end, despite it being true. Perhaps due to the natural grace and body coordination that came with her Olympian pedigree, Ling was shaking and bouncing her buttocks with uncanny rhythm. Her ass-cheeks were of such size and roundness, she was able to produce a clapping sound even while wearing the tights. He lay under her in a sort of bliss as she dropped lower, jiggling her buttocks in his face, sometimes squatting low enough that they nearly brushed his nose. She grabbed her ankles and shook her cheeks, arched her back and bounced her ass until it looked like her wiggling, clapping ass mounds would tear a hole in them.

Orson realized something amazing when he saw the mix of determination and embarrassment on Ling’s face.  _ She’s giving a performance _ , he thought.  _ She’s putting her all into it!  _ He smiled and nearly burst out laughing. She was a competitor through and through, and had in her life probably been told a hundred or a thousand times to practice and perfect a routine. The ass-twerking PornHub video he’d queued up was no different. She was imitating the moves of the thick PAWGs and ebony beauties on screen with absolute precision… yet she had an ass that was better than any of them, full and round but also powerful. 

His erection was quickly growing enormous. Orson, known as the resident pussy-hound, was also known for having a cock to match, a serious piece of smooth and aesthetically-pleasing meat that hung down nearly to his knee when half-hard. Now, full erect, it was poking out past the waistband of his warmups, the head hovering over his belly-button. 

He could take no more. “Okay, now, on your hands and knees!” he said, scooting out from under her. “Give me a close up look at that huge ass!”

He heard her give one of her curt exhalations of breath, which he now considered a Ling trademark. “It normal sized!” she complained. “Not big!” She dropped down to her knees and looked over her shoulder at him, brow furrowed. His cock, tucked beneath the hanging lower edge of his undershirt, was mostly concealed.

“Who the fuck are you kidding?” he laughed. “Come on. Face down, ass up. Knees together. Really stick out that dump truck!” She growled with frustration and lowered her chest flat against the bedspread, putting her knees and thighs tightly together, bracing on her knees and sticking her booty in the air. Orson scrambled to his knees, looking like a treasure hunter who had just stumbled on a chest filled with gold. He stuck out his hands and made greedy squeezing motions in the air.

“That enough!” Ling objected. “You stop now!”

But Orson wasn’t done. He couldn’t come this close to perfection and not hold it in his hands. And before him, propped up on two shapely, muscled gymnast thighs, as the ultimate booty. So soft, so round, so big! His mind warned him that he was about to cross a dangerous precipice. He could be sanctioned. He could see ‘USA Gymnastics Hit With Another Scandal’ in the newspapers the next day. The safe play was to take his amazing view, bid Ling goodnight, and then jerk his big dick off while the masturbation fuel was still fresh in mind.

But he had never been one to play it safe.

His greedy, big hands moved forward and his fingers hooked into the waist of her tights. “Ah!” Ling chirped. Orson ignored her objection and pulled. It was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. The tight waistband moved over her wide hips and bulging bubble-booty only with difficulty. And as it travelled, her pale, perfectly complexioned ass flesh poured out from beneath, like the soft and delicious top of a just-baked muffin overflowing its paper holder. Her cheeks emerged and actually  _ recoiled _ with bounce as he peeled the tights down to mid-thigh, leaving her totally bottomless.

“Of course you don’t wear panties,” Orson breathed. “Your huge ass would probably tear them in half!” A waft of deliciously-scented air, warm and pungent, hit him right in the face. Ling’s rear, which had been twerking hard, was coated with a sheen of sweat! And between the enormous hemispherical Chinese cheeks, he could see the slightly darker and rosier pucker of her asshole, which was every bit as perfect and inviting as he’d hoped. It didn’t look too tight or like his cock wouldn’t fit, it didn’t look too loose, it was aesthetically perfect. He inhaled and let his nostrils flare around the scent of her sweat.

“You are true American pig!” Ling gasped, her tights now bunched around her knees. “And sexual degenerate!”

Orson knew only one way to respond to that. The moment he had been waiting for. He reared back with one muscled, well-coordinated arm, chiseled and cut from so many days suspending himself in mid-air or bouncing off vaulting horses and padded floors. With a short wind-up, he brought it down hard - slapping Ling’s right ass-cheek so loudly that it actually startled the both of them. The sound resonated in the small room and Orson saw a sheen of clean sweat spritz into the air. Ling’s rear actually bounced and jiggled for a while before coming to a stop.

“Ah!” Ling moaned, and threw back her head, exhaling, her breath quickening. Orson looked down - her ass was imprinted with the exact outline of his palm in a hot pink color. He could clearly see all four fingers and his thumb. “You stop now!” she cried back at him, though she sounded flushed and breathless and more vulnerable than before.

“You like this, don’t you?” Orson ventured, gazing in between Ling’s legs, where her well-trimmed pussy was visible in the familiar pudenda shape, the outer labia seeming to glisten. “You’re getting wet!”

“Shut up!” Ling wailed, sounding more Western than she had at any other time. “I not like it ever!”

Orson clapped his hands down on Ling’s rear, one hand on each cheek, and spread her as wide as she could, drawing another eyes-wide gasp. He thought of the patriots who had gone before him at the Olympic games and brought glory to America. Jesse Owens. Carl Lewis. Michael Phelps. Now, it was his turn.

He  _ buried his face in between those buns _ . His upper lip and nose smooshed instantly into Ling’s winking, trembling anus as he pressed her cheeks inward around his face as hard as he could, mashing his cheeks with thick mounds of sweat-moistened muscle. He inhaled and felt molecules of hot, Chinese girl booty sweat aerosolized and zip up his nostrils. 

Ling cried out and pressed her palms and chest flat against the bedspread, squinting her eyes tight. She seemed to barely be able to get any words out. “Ah! You… American… I… uwaaagh!”

The final exclamation came as Orson passed into the final frontier, sticking out his tongue and sliding it as deep as he could into her warm, accepting, and sweat dappled, delicious dark cherry. Immediately his appendage was enveloped in warmth and tightness and he explored as deep as he could, completely surrounded in oriental thickness both front and sides. She sank down, knees weakening, and his face followed her, her cheeks mounding up in his hands and on either side of his face.

She was making objections, half-spoken and clipped by her harsh breaths, but she was also responding to his tongue as it probed her inner walls and danced around her ass rim. He could feel her twitching and knew that she was feeling something intense, in spite of her complaints. The best part (well, not the very best part - that was having his face buried between those two meaty ass-globes!) was feeling her well-muscled body tense and flex and respond to his every movement and he loudly and lewdly ate her ass out. Like most Olympians, her petite and compact frame was a well-oiled machine!

“Asshole!” she wailed, exhausting what he assumed was the extent of her English swearing.

“You can say that again!” Orson gasped out, removing his mouth from her ring for just a moment, before diving back in even deeper. She struggled back to her knees and struggled away from him, her chest reaching the foot of the bed… but he simply followed, munching away like the human centipede and squeezing her buns around his face like a man shielding himself from a blizzard. He savored the scent and taste of her athletic body, inhaling and slurping enthusiastically.

“ _ Chi sin gweilo! _ ” she cried, and her tiny hands gripped the bedspread as her back arched majestically, thrusting her ass up into the air and harder against his mouth. He felt her muscles tense, and then it happened - a spray of liquid erupted from her pussy, so copious it was like a nozzle had been opened, hosing directly backward into his chest and neck. She accompanied this with a helpless wail. Chinese or American, Orson knew an orgasm when he saw one, and this one had been big enough to shake her body to the core and leave her slumping on the bedspread.

He stepped back and wiped his mouth with satisfaction. “Well, well!” he crowed. “I guess you like that quite a bit after all!”

Ling only groaned, cheek pressed to the mattress, body flattered, her buttocks the highest point of her stretched-out form, like two rolling hills of flesh. But of course, Orson wasn’t done yet. He may have managed to coax a climax out of the most tsundere gymnast girl in the orient, but his cock was still raring to go… especially with the sight of those two butt mounds resting just inches away.

“I think I found what really ran over that guy in Tiananmen Square!” he quipped, and kneewalked to straddle her thighs. Never before had a valley between two buns looked like such a perfect fit for a piece of meat.

“Nnngh… go fuck to you!” Ling rasped, still trying to catch her breath. Orson reached down and took two beautiful, heavy handfuls of ass-flesh and let them spill through the gaps between his digits before spreading her wide. It was like trying to part the sea - her heavy cheeks kept trying to fall back together through and around his hands. But he took a tight grip and slid his long, girthy, and cum-leaking cock into position. He couldn’t remember ever having such a huge erection. Ling’s ass, it seemed, was once again encouraging him to greater heights of performance.

With his veiny, fleshy log laid in her asscrack, the tip just above the top of her dimpled buttocks, the base emerging from below, with his balls laying between her heavy thighs, her pressed those buns back together… and immediately his face fell into a state of euphoria. It was the best feeling he’d ever experienced! It was better than pussy. He began to thrust his hips, sliding his cock forward and back with small strokes, letting his shaft glide through the passage via the lubrication of his pre-cum and her sweat.

It felt so good that he knew he wouldn’t last long, and her squeaking moans of post-orgasm arousal, triggered by his fat piss-pipe rubbing against her sensitive anus, only accelerated his finish. “Mmm, fuck… take my cock, you Chinese butt-bitch!” he seethed to himself, under his breath, reveling in the conquering feeling of christening her ass with his shaft. Even though he hadn’t meant for her to hear it, she choked out an objection.

“I am… world-class athlete! Not… butt-bitch!” Ling gasped.

Orson’s face drew into a tooth-clenched fury. “Yes you are!” he seethed at her. “You have the most massive, slutty ass I’ve ever seen! Your whole career, every coach and trainer and handler you ever had was probably busting a nut in his room the second you walked out the door, because of your huge bubble-butt and thighs!” 

“Shut up!” Ling wailed.

“And you know when Chairman Mao or whoever came to watch you compete, they always took a seat directly behind so they could see this fucking badonkadonk!” Orson went on, getting on a rant. “I’m sick of you denying it! Your cute little body is like 50% ass! You’re not some innocent gymnast; I have the biggest dick on Team USA… and you’re making my whole shaft disappear with this big, fat  _ szechuan shitter _ !”

He reached down as he continued to hotdog her buns, grinding a palm into her bare pussy and finding it absolutely soaked. Ling made a warbling moan and her eyes rolled back a little into her head as her simultaneously mashed her labia into her clit and sawed his bone across the twitching tissue of her anal ring. His leaking cocktip spat droplets of pre-cum onto her lower back each time it emerged from between her cheeks.

“Say it! You’re not an athlete, you’re just a bitch with a pair of huge Chinese meat buns!” Orson taunted. “You only got where you are by waving this  _ dim sum dumper  _ around in front of men!” Of course he believed no such thing - Ling would probably score better than him 99 times out of 100 - but his feelings of dominance were in overdrive, and her body was responding even more. He sank two digits into her pussy and started to fingerblast quickly, filling the room with an obscene, liquid sound. She was to hot and tight!

“I… I…”

“Say it! Spread your fucking ass for me!”

Her whole body tensed again and Orson’s fingers were nearly snapped by the spasming grip of her pussy, while more lubrication squirted out all over his fingers and hand, creating a sprinkler that dappled the mattress again. She arched her back, spread her knees wide enough to tear her pulled-down tights, and then reached behind herself, taking a hold of her own booty… and spreading the thick ass-mounds wide, exposing her glistening, twitching asshole.

“I… am Chinese butt biiiiiitch!” she wailed, and her voice was so ragged that Orson knew she was rolling her eyes back without even seeing them. His muscled arm moved rapidly forward and back as he jerked and milked his long and turgid penis, fisting it aggressively over the spread twin platforms of her ass, the head seeming to swell and twitch as he got closer.

“Take my cum you fat ass Chinese sluuuuuut!” he cried, and then became subject to the facial contortions and spasms that every male encounters when the orgasm is really good, looking ridiculous but not caring, gasping out as a thick, unbroken stream of semen flew from his pisshole and splattered the length of her crack as if he was adding condiments to a hotdog. His thick, virile seed piled on itself, trickling into the small depression of her anal ring as spurt after spurt compounded there. He aimed left, deposited three thick streams on her bubbly butt cheek, then aimed to the right, repeating the deep, wanting to leave every inch of her mounds totally covered and saturated. But mostly, he unloaded in between - grunting out splatter after splatter of his thick load until her asshole was completely covered.

When it was finally done, and his cock was spent, he slumped back onto the bed. Ling let her grip go and her bubble-ass collapsed back together, jiggling as the cheeks collided. There was a squelching noise as the huge deposit of cum was caught between, and when those round ass-mounds finally lay still, Orson saw that thick strands of his cum were connecting them together like milky rope bridges. He had totally  _ creamed _ her big, thick ass! Orson guessed that not even the astronauts who planted the American flag on the moon had ever felt such a surge after marking territory as their own.

Ling groaned, face-down, silver eyes dazed, cheek pressed against the bedspread. Orson was struck by a sudden burst of inspiration. Leaning over the side of the bed to where he’d placed his Olympic swag and luggage, he found a packet of Team USA stickers that ostensibly were to be used to mark his bags, water bottles and other sundries. He gleefully peeled one of these away, and then crawled across the bed.

WHAP!

It was the biggest jiggle yet. Using his palm, he slapped down the Team USA sticker, emblazoned with the stars and bars, and the red white and blue. Directly onto the cum-streaked right cheek of Ling’s amazing bubble butt. It stuck fast, and as Orson watched her flesh undulate under the symbol of his nation, a tear came to his eye. He reached up and gave a military-style salute, humming the star-spangled banner as he watched that amazing eastern ass-mound wobble.

“God bless the United States of America,” Orson whispered, and then slumped back onto his pillows, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment. The intensity of the encounter had left him a little drained, and he lay with his eyes closed for several minutes, expecting that Ling might struggle to her feet, collect her tights, and take her leave. Yet it was five minutes or more before he felt her stirring at the foot of the bed, and a petite and impish hand clutching at his ankle.

“You must do more!” came her voice, and Orson’s eyes went wide. Had he heard her correctly? More? He had just busted the biggest nut of his life! It seemed unlikely, but he looked over and there she was, sitting between his ankles, staring at him intently, her eyes shining like dull silver. In the wake of her orgasms and their rutting, with a few strands of her silky black hair out of place from her tight hair buns and a sheen of sweat on her body, she looked more beautiful than ever. Not only that, but her expression was very much changed. She looked plaintive. Submissive, even.

“Uh…” Orson stammered, drawing himself up to his elbows.

“Don’t start being lazy American now,” Ling said, crossing her arms. “You hit my switch! And your  _ gweilo _ cock really big!” Her voice was almost whiny, like a petulant child who wanted more desert. As Orson watched, she stood up on the mattress, walked to straddle his waist, and then turned around… before squatting directly over his half-hard cock. Showing much more agency and interest than she’d had only moments before, she reached down and took hold of his white, girthy hose, stroking it hard enough to make him wince, and positioning it so she could drop her thick booty straight down and take the length straight up her cum-soaked asshole!

“I uh… look, I don’t think I - you’re pretty small, and-” Orson stammered, but she showed no hesitation at all. Even though she was tiny - perhaps four-foot-nine, all told - she was fearless when it came to the knee-length size of his cum-leaking dickmeat. Just watching her squat over it, ass-cheeks bulging out like half-moons, he estimated it would go all the way up into the center of her chest if he went balls deep. In other words… it seemed impossible. “Plus,” he added, suddenly feeling a bit nervous at her lustful expression, “I just came, so-”

“I get you hard again,” Ling said, determined. She said it in the same tone of voice that she might have used to say ‘I win gold medal’ - the icy confidence of a life-long competitor. She reached down, grabbed her ankles… and then squatted in the lewdest, jiggliest, ass-clappingest twerksex pose imaginable. Her bubble-butt cheeks wobbled and bounced against each other, the flesh compressing and expanding, her asshole peeking out and then hiding again, strands of cum stretching and breaking.

“Nnnngh,” Orson moaned, biting his lip.

“Give me,” she breathed. “Give me fat Chinese ass pumped full of  _ American cum _ !”

Orson wheezed through his lips like a horse as his cock rocketed to hardness, hearing her refer to herself in such a way. As his towering prick bobbed in midair, she again used one hand to steady it and slowly dropped her hips down… taking inch after inch inside her asshole with the meaty sound of sliding, stretching, moist flesh being parted! They gasped together at the mutual pleasure it brought. Orson found the grip so hot and tight, and the visual of his pipe spearing between her thick cheeks so amazing, he nearly came again on the spot.

She began to raise and lower, raise and lower. Orson quickly gained an appreciation for the determination and athleticism of Chinese gymnasts as her compact body somehow accepted every inch of his mammoth meat; he was sure that if he could see her front, the shape of his long and girthy Caucasian cock would be visible poking up the skin of her trim belly. On the downstrokes, she planted her palms on his upper thighs and her buttocks dropped all the way down to slap wetly on his abs.

_ Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap.  _

Orson lost track of time. It was at least the length of a floor routine, probably more than double, and he could tell from her undulating and groaning that Ling came multiple times. She called him  _ big-dick American, American donkey cock _ , and  _ gweilo _ , and several times lapsed into unintelligible Chinese. Much to his amazement, she used the terms he had used before to describe her own ass, begging him to  _ fill up her big, fat fucking ass _ ,  _ wreck her bubble butt _ , and other combinations of lewd English terms endearing in their out-of-order syntax.

Finally, though he would have testified just fifteen minutes before that he couldn’t cum another drop, she sank down onto his abdomen with her third or fourth anal orgasm, bracing her hands behind her and raising her crotch so that half his cock had emerged, and squirted like crazy all over the room, even splattering his walls. At the same time, Orson gritted his teeth, called her a fat-ass, bubble-butt Chinese bitch, and uncorked what held like a gallon of thick semen deep into her ass-pipe, feeling immense satisfaction from filling her up.

When it was done, their sweaty bodies lay tangled in a heap, his on top of hers, and neither one of them said anything. His hand brushed against her waist and, hesitantly, he gave her a loose embrace. A moment later, her small hand gripped his bicep in a reciprocal gesture.

“You… come to World Championships,” Ling breathed, her chin pressed up against his chest, staring up at him. Her eyes shone, and she planted a short kiss on one of his pecs. “I need more American cum. So you come to Beijing.” She closed her eyes cutely and smiled.

Orson was suddenly both excited and afraid. Which, he realized, was at least better than being bored. He had actually been planning to retire from gymnastics following the Olympic games, but now?

He had a very good reason to make the World Championships.

“Fat ass, bubble butt Chinese girl,” he muttered, not unkindly.

“Lazy American donkey dick,” she sighed back.

It was sun-up before she left his room.  
  



End file.
